On the Side of the Angels
by Scarlett Rogue
Summary: Sherlock finally returns to John, but he's not the same. For one thing, he's an entirely different person. For another, he's not even human anymore. What will John discover when he does a bit of digging?


**Summary: Sherlock finally returns to John, but he's not the same. For one thing, he's an entirely different person. For another, he's not even human anymore. What will John discover when he does a bit of digging?**

**Rated: T**

**Note: This is slightly introspective. I know some people don't like that, but it comes naturally to me so I'm going with it.**

**This is filling a prompt that someone requested on Tumblr. Want one filled? Follow me. someottersmarryhedgehogs. I'm lonely. So go follow me.**

* * *

John should have woken up immediately at the sound of the front door creaking open loudly, as it did most days due to a lack of oiling. He was a light sleeper, yet the sound went in one ear and out the other. His body shifted on the couch where he had fallen asleep just over an hour ago, his mouth hung open and a dot of saliva trickling down his cheek. The door closed softer now, and the flat was silent.

The footsteps, too, should have woken the army doctor up. Heavy feet walked slowly across the room, over dried and creaking wood, the fall of each step quieter than the last. But John slept on, to which his visitor was grateful for.

Sherlock walked directly to the window and peered out. Baker Street was unusually silent tonight. The whole world was, even his sleeping friend, whom Mycroft mentioned had barely slept since the fall. Sherlock leaned against the window and kept his eyes away from the sleeping man. If he looked at John all bets would be off; he'd need to feel him, hear his voice, look into his eyes and see him looking back. But John needed his sleep; Sherlock had effectively deprived him of that for the last two years, but he wouldn't let himself tonight.

His blue eyes slid over the room, trained on each piece of furniture. John had barely moved anything around since he'd been gone. Even Sherlock's laptop was still sitting on the far desk, the same small filling rack next to it. His materials weren't spread out the way they'd been before, but if Sherlock squinted he could see them piled neatly in the kitchen, out of the way enough to give a sense of normality but noticeable enough to prove that sense false. There was nothing _normal _about any of this; John hadn't moved on.

Sherlock's eyes finally fell on his skull sitting on the mantel. He crossed the room slowly, as quiet as possible, and lifted it up. A box of cigarettes was laying underneath where John usually hid them. He picked up the box and shook it, and part of him regretted doing so.

It was full, never been opened. He checked the date and saw that John must have bought these less than two months ago. Sherlock couldn't contain the choked sob that feel from his lips. He pressed his palm to his mouth to stifle the sound as his other hand shook around the box of cigarettes.

John bought them for Sherlock. He hid them there so Sherlock couldn't find them, but kept them there unless he _really _needed one. And he didn't just keep an old, mangy box from years ago; he bought a new one. Part of him wanted Sherlock to come waltzing back into his life, begging for a cigarette.

The box slid from his fingers and fell against the wood floor with a much louder clatter than Sherlock would have though possible for such a small object. The sound effectively caused John to sit up on the couch, groaning in frustration, and pull himself up slowly.

"'Ose there?" His voice with thick and muffled with sleep but his eyes were alert. They found Sherlock immediately. He didn't dare move.

He let John look him over for several minutes, the silence dragging on longer than he would have liked, but he knew the older man needed to do this. After several minutes he pushed himself up fully and slid off the couch. His clothes were rumbled and his hair was sticking in all different directions, but it was John nonetheless.

"Hi, stranger," Sherlock whispered into the still air. His voice, so soft, sounded so loud, and was met with silence. He watched as the sound of his voice caused John to relax his muscles, but the man still made no move.

"You aren't real, are you?" He sounded so calm, so accepting. It broke Sherlock's heart.

"Of course I am, John," Sherlock tried to say, but John shook his head and laughed.

"No, no you're not. You're a figment of my imagination."

"That's not true." Sherlock took a step toward him but John held his hand out. His eyes dripped with sorrow.

"That's it then, is it? It's finally happened. I've finally gone round the bend! Lestrade warned me...Bugger, I should call him. What time is it? _Don't_ answer that." John snatched his phone off the coffee table to check the time. "Still early enough to call."

"John, that's not necessary."

"He'd probably be willing to talk to me, even if it is a bit late."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"NO!" John whipped around, phone still pressed to his ear as it rang softly, and took a few deep breaths. "I'm not...no, I won't listen to _you_. Because _you _aren't real!"

Sherlock sighed and slumped down into the nearest chair. He knew John wouldn't take this too well, mainly because he was a sane, relatively normal individual, but still. He just wanted his friend back. All this seemed to take away what time they had together.

"Hey Greg! Yeah, hi, it's me. Hope you don't mind me calling so late...that'd be nice, actually. Thank you, Greg. I mean it. See you in a few." Sherlock heard the phone click and watched John set it down. He could tell John was trying his hardest to keep his eyes off Sherlock. He spun around in circles as if trying to find something to busy himself with, then muttered 'tea' and slumped into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, a knock at the door. John walked briskly into the room, having woken up fully, and swung the door open. Sherlock watched as the two men embraced briefly and then Lestrade wandered it. His scarf was balled up in his hands and his hair was damp from the rain.

"Tea?"

"I'd love some, thanks." Lestrade turned to take a seat and that was when he noticed Sherlock. He stood there for a few seconds, eyes going from Sherlock to John and back. John came back into the room and held a cup out to Lestrade.

"Here you are."

"Hello Sherlock!"

The two sentences were said simultaneously; however, one caused much more shock and confusion than the other.

"You can see him, too?" John said incredulously. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up as he turned to his friend.

"See him? Of course I can see him, John. What are you talking-" Sherlock cleared his throat and he met Lestrade's brown eyes. They shared a look that John didn't understand.

"Oh...You thought you'd lost your mind, didn't you?" Lestrade asked softly. There was no judgement in his tone, no humor, no pity; just support and understanding. Still, John's shoulders slumped in shame.

"What the hell else was I supposed to think?"

"Nothing," Sherlock stood up as he talked. "Any sane person would assume they'd lost their mind. Consider it a sign of your good mental stability that you didn't think otherwise."

"What does that say about Greg, then?"

"Hey, none of that!" Lestrade waved his arms around, nearly spilling his tea. "Mycroft told me everything even before I laid eyes on Sherlock. I can't for the life of me figure out why he didn't do the same for you, though. Anyway, I'm gonna get going. I figure you boys have lots to talk about. Alone."

He waved over his shoulder as he left the flat, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock and John stood across the room from each other, neither moving, but their eyes dancing. It was a language they'd come to know well over the years, and one that hadn't been lost by separation.

"You...have a lot of explaining to do," John said through a tight voice. Sherlock smiled softly and crossed the room, taking the smaller man into his arms.

"Later." His voice cracked as he melted into the hug. Years of loneliness, of wandering around only half a man, and now they were both whole again.

* * *

They had been living together again for a total of two days before John started noticing the differences. At first he'd chalked them up to them finally being reunited and Sherlock not wanting to irritate John, but as time went on those reasons seemed to fade. Sherlock had changed. Some of the changes were subtle, like his grace when he moved: quick, jerking motions that always looked like a dance. John frequently caught himself watching the manic pacing, finding it much more endearing than he ever had, and had to force himself to stop. Others noticed it, too, but they (unlike John) didn't know how unusual it really was.

Then there was the fact that Sherlock actually _ate_. John didn't have to push or prod; the fridge was soon full of food. Half of it was John's idea of a good meal, and the other half was Sherlock's. John tried to be happy about this improvement, but he couldn't push away the nagging suspicion that something was off about Sherlock.

He also locked his door each night, which was never a habit of his. John shrugged this one off, however, because who was he to judge if his flatmate just wanted a bit of privacy?

Then there were the more noticeable changes, the changes that had John wondering what on Earth Sherlock had left out when he told John about the past two years. Had he been tortured? Brutally abused? What happened to him to make him like..._this_?

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John stood away from the crowd of police officers and their detective friends. Sherlock had his back to him, his hand covering his mouth, and tears were running down his pale cheeks.

"I can't do this, John."

"Do what? Solve a murder case? Sherlock, you did it all the time. You loved it!" John waved away Lestrade's approach; he wasn't the only one worried about Sherlock's sudden outburst. One minute they'd been examining a body, and the next Sherlock had released a heart-wrecking sob and stormed away wordlessly. 'Out-of-character' was a bit of an understatement.

"Yes, but that was before I-" His jaw snapped shut and he looked pointedly ahead, avoiding John's eyes.

"Before you what, Sherlock?" When the man didn't answer John stepped closer and pressed his hand to the small of Sherlock's back. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

Sherlock smiled and leaned in to the touch but said nothing. His blue eyes glistened with tears and he closed his eyes, released a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "But I can't do it. Please fill me in on the details later. I'll help as best I can, but I can't...I can't see this."

John watched helplessly as Sherlock walked away from a crime scene, a murder, without even a glance over his shoulder. It simply wasn't the Sherlock Holmes that John - or anyone - had ever known. And it was scaring him.

"I think I'll make a coffee date with him tonight." Lestrade said. "7 pm. I'll keep him out of the house for a least thirty minutes." He stared knowingly at John and the man nodded.

Lestrade was giving him time to figure out what he needed to about Sherlock, bless him.

* * *

7 pm found John rummaging through Sherlock's drawers in frustration. It wasn't as if he'd found nothing; Sherlock had a new fascination with myths, apparently, and kept a lot of books and small trinkets lying round his room. He searched every pocket, every hidden spot, and found nothing useful.

Ten minutes in to the search, and John was sitting on the couch flicking through channels at rapid speed. He was frustrated that he couldn't help Sherlock, frustrated that he didn't know why Sherlock needed help, frustrated because you'd think after all this time working with the great Sherlock Holmes, John would finally learn to _notice_ things.

"Thought you were going to bed early?" Sherlock walked into the flat, feet bouncing and a bright smile spread across his face. He slid his coat off and slung it over his arm.

"Tried and failed," John said as he flipped the channel again.

"Well, I'm exhausted so I'm going to retire early." He pulled a carton of something out from under his coat and went to place it in the fridge. John resisted the urge to ask until right before he closed his bedroom door.

"Sherlock, what was that?"

"Milk. I noticed we were out. Night!"

John shut the telly off and ran his calloused palms over his face. What the hell had happened to his best friend?

That was when something caught his attention, something that hadn't happened since Sherlock came back. For the first time, John hadn't heard the lock on his bedroom door click.

Thirty minutes had passed before John found himself sneaking up to Sherlock's bedroom door. He touched the knob and turned it slowly, smiling when it didn't stop. Part of him wanted to turn around and walk away. Maybe he didn't _want_ to know why Sherlock always locked his door at night. Maybe he was strung out on drugs, relapsed over the years, and that explained the crying episode earlier.

_Ignorance is bliss, right?_

He pushed that part away and leaned in to the door. It opened without so much as a squeak and John stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him. His eyes fell on the bed and he gasped before he could stop himself.

Sherlock was laying on his stomach, hands pushed under his pillow to cradle his head through the feathers and one leg falling off the edge of the bed while the other bent over it slightly. His raven hair fanned out on the pillow, his lips pressed together but moving every few seconds. He was whispering in his sleep, talking to someone, but John couldn't make out the words. Even up close they were too soft for human ears. He was stark naked and his skin radiated in the glow of the moonlight pouring in through his open curtain.

None of these things stopped John in his tracks. The wings, on the other hand, _did_.

His eyes roamed over the long, black feathers. They fanned out around his body just like his hair did to his head, becoming neater as they approached his back. There was just enough light for him to make out the red marks, jagged scars, where they had obviously come in the first time. There was a feather here or there on the floor.

John backed up without thinking and stumbled right into Sherlock's dresser. The consulting detective's drinking glass was perched on the edge, and John gave it just the nudge it needed to topple over, crash to the ground and shatter, sending glass and water flying in every direction.

It was like when Sherlock had first come back, only this time John had been discovered lurking in the shadows, and Sherlock was the one jumping up in surprise.

"John, what...what are you doing? What happened?" His voice was noticeably flustered. John watched him rise, watched the feathered wings pull closer to his body in a protective nature, and took a step toward the door.

"DON'T!"

Sherlock reached out from his bed, grabbed John by the hand, and pulled him into his arms. John's feet didn't touch the floor once.

"What were you thinking? There's glass everywhere!" Sherlock said as he pulled at John's feet as if to make sure he hadn't stepped on anything, but John pulled them away. He pushed himself out of Sherlock's arms but remained on the bed.

"You have wings." His voice was more than a little hysterical. He was freaking out.

"Because I'm an angel."

"Very funny. Tell me the truth, what kind of experiment is this? 'Make John Watson think he's lost his mind once more'?"

"I would never do that to you, John," Sherlock said. "Please, listen to me. I know this is weird. I know it doesn't make much sense. It didn't make any sense to me, either, but it will, I promise!"

Minutes passed as John's eyes moved from Sherlock's face, to his broad shoulders, to the black feathers sticking out from under his arms.

"They're black," he muttered.

"Yes, well, the societal expectation that black is evil and white is good is quite pathetic. I mean, if anything, white should be evil because it's the absence of all color, whereas black is the presence of all color. Furthermore-"

"Alright, I get it!" John took a few deep breaths and then leaned forward slowly. Sherlock tried to pull away but there was nowhere for him to go. His wings shuttered in annoyance as John held a feather between two fingers. "How?"

Sherlock looked away for a good minute before he met John's eyes again. "The fall. It's how I survived."

"So...You're telling me that you survived because you were an angel, and obviously real angels don't die?"

"No," Sherlock laughed softly. "I _did_ die that day. I was brought to St. Bart's. Molly found me alive and sporting black wings when she opened the body bag. Nasty shock for her, but she helped me figure out what the hell happened and made sure everyone thought I died. And now, here I am."

"This is..." John fisted his hair in frustration. "This is mad. This is absolutely, positively mad. And yet...I believe you."

Sherlock's head shot up at that confession. His eyes were misting over unexpectedly as John reached for his hand.

"I've always believed in you, Sherlock. I don't want to stop now."

John barely felt himself move. One second he was sitting on the edge of the bed, three or four feet away from Sherlock, and the next he had been pulled effortlessly into his friend's arms. His arms went around Sherlock's waist, tilting up to avoid where the wings met his back. They seemed to have a mind of their own, and he really didn't want to piss them off.

"Thank you, thank you," Sherlock kept whispering. He was crying into John's shoulder, releasing all the fear he'd built up that told him John would hate him, throw him out if he knew what he truly was.

And Doctor John H. Watson was hugging an angel. An angel who happened to be his best friend, his other half, his reason for living. Someone whose strength had significantly increased in startling amounts, held back only by his new-found emotional capacity. Yet, even knowing that his friend was far from normal, John couldn't bring himself to think of him that way. Not a freak or an anomaly or a walking myth. Just Sherlock.

He'd always be Sherlock to John.

* * *

**Omg, did I just write a 3,300-ish word one-shot? What the actual fuck? Ever since I started writing Sherlock fanfiction, my one-shots have been longer than normal. Also, I'm iffy about this. I love the beginning, but I feel like the ending was rushed and should have been written by someone with far more talent and patience than I possess. **

**I hope peeps like it nonetheless. It was fun to write, and a truly fascinating prompt to receive, so thank you to that creative anon who requested this :D Want a prompt filled? Go follow my lonely ass on Tumblr :D **

**Also, I love reviews like Mycroft loves umbrellas and cake, so please review!**

**On a funny note, in my sleep-deprived state I accidentally wrote "I'm sorry John, but I can't do you," instead of "do it". Freudian slip, anyone?  
**


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